


yet to come

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Birthday Party, Canon Compliant, Holding Hands, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Outer Space, Pillow & Blanket Forts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: Keith doesn’t really get the point of birthday parties, but he’stryingto be supportive. He just doesn't understand why they've turned the castleship into a giant blanket fort.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: nonsexual intimacy prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838314
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	yet to come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benicemurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benicemurphy/gifts).



> Nonsexual intimacy prompt: holding hands & cuddling in a blanket fort ([originally posted on twitter 6/15/20](https://twitter.com/boggremlin/status/1272726457329029120))

It’s hard to keep track in space, but Pidge writes the computer program to guess the date, Hunk bakes a cake, and Coran organizes everyone into decorating the castleship for Lance’s birthday. It’s a nice gesture; it’s also a form of self-preservation. Lance is insufferable when he thinks he’s being ignored. 

Keith doesn’t really get the point of birthday parties, but he’s _trying_ to be supportive; Shiro keeps mentioning that Keith’s got to learn how to be a leader, and this is part of it. (It’s a part that makes Keith want to tear his hair out, or go and sit by himself in a corner until the frustration passes, but doing that only seems to encourage Lance’s drama, so. He’s trying.)

It’s a surprise party, for maximum impact. Coran’s a little confused and extremely exuberant, so he makes a maze of extra bedding throughout the common areas, a little blanket fort city.

Keith escapes to the quietest corner and pokes his slice of cake thoughtfully. He’s not much for sweets, but Keith trusts Hunk. 

He takes a bite. It _is_ sweet, but it’s good. It doesn’t taste like anything on Earth, which Keith prefers, honestly. It’s hard enough trying to figure out how to move forward without constantly comparing his life now to the one he left behind. Besides, if the space cake had tasted anything like a Little Debbie relic, Keith might have to throw himself out the airlock.

Shiro crawls carefully into the empty space beside him. Keith always leaves it like that, just in case: so he’s sitting to Shiro’s right. 

“Pretty sure you were supposed to wait to eat that until after we yelled ‘happy birthday’,” Shiro grins. 

“Hunk handed it to me, what else was I supposed to do?” Keith knows Shiro isn’t chiding him, but Keith still feels sensitive. He pulls one of his emergency silicone bags out of his pouch — he never knew when he’d need one, in the desert, and they still come in handy — and makes to wrap up the remaining cake. Maybe he’ll eat it later. 

“Hey, you’re fine,” Shiro says, and liberates the cake. “How’s it taste?”

“It’s okay,” Keith says. He knows he doesn’t need to stash extra food around the castleship; Hunk would be terribly hurt if he knew Keith was doing it. But it’s been a while since Keith could reliably anticipate his next meal, and the habit is hard to shake. Keith knows that Shiro has a habit — a trauma — that’s pretty similar. Keith wishes he knew what happened, and wishes that it had not happened at all. 

Shiro takes a tentative bite, makes a face, and chews for longer than a mouthful of space cake might otherwise require. “And now I can say I’ve had funfetti in space,” he says. “You know, it’s eerily like the real thing.”

“That can’t be true,” Keith says. “Funfetti isn’t real, it’s one of those made-up historic foods Matt always tried to horrify me with. Like those gelatin salads.”

“Oh, buddy,” Shiro laughs. “The scariest thing about Matt is that he doesn’t lie.”

Keith ponders that, for a moment. Shiro takes another bite of the cake, and another, and finishes the slice. “No evidence this way,” he says, mouth full. “I’m protecting you.”

“My hero,” Keith says. 

They settle in, waiting for Coran’s signal. It’s close and warm in the blanket fort. The space fills with the sound of Shiro’s breathing, the oddly clean smell of their flight suits. Keith can hear little clicks and hums from Shiro’s prosthetic, like it’s running a diagnostic, or idling like an engine. Keith can’t quite decide if it’s a peaceful feeling, but there’s something safe about this moment, something sacred. He remembers racing with Shiro in the desert. Keith was capable of keeping up — was capable of eclipsing Shiro, if he put his mind to it — but he’s been content to follow Shiro for years. 

He’s concentrating so closely on that, he doesn’t hear Coran’s three-part call-and-response whistle that indicates Allura is leading Lance their way.

“C’mon,” Shiro says, grasping Keith’s hand. The prosthetic is warm and smooth, a little buzzy; it feels like a hand. 

Shiro pulls Keith lower, until they’re ducked down enough that their heads don’t form little hilltops in the blanket ceiling of their cave. “Get ready,” Shiro says. He hasn’t let go, and Keith clasps back, slotting his fingers in between Shiro’s. Shiro gives his hand a little squeeze: here. Safe. “On three.”

So much for timing — Lance barges into the room, tripping over one of the mouse-height garlands stretched across the entryway. As he topples down (“timberrrr!” Pidge yells from under a pile of sofa cushions), Shiro leaps up, throwing the blanket off and pulling at Keith’s hand so that he follows to his feet, wobbling at the sudden change from dim coziness to the bright room. Everything devolves into chaos; but Keith feels tethered, for just a moment, before Shrio lets go.


End file.
